


Hiss

by undun



Series: 4x2 [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Disability, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, alternative ending, original magical creature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry defeated Voldemort, of course. Exactly what did it cost him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiss

**Author's Note:**

> This series of fics was my first foray into writing fan fiction. Circa 2003.  
> Disclaimer: This work is a non-profit pastiche. No infringement upon existing copyrighted material is intended.

I’m sitting at the high table watching the Sorting Ceremony. I am excited, nervous, and extremely self-conscious.

 

Nesss gives me a running commentary on the proceedings, so I can match the faces and names to the Houses for which they are destined. I reserve the right to clap more enthusiastically for Gryffindor. The poor First Years are more terrified than usual. Severus Snape has taken over the duty of calling the students up to face the trial-by-hat. It’s enough to make even the most Slytherin-hearted eleven-year-old quake in their boots.

 

Professor McGonagall sits in Dumbledore’s chair. She doesn’t twinkle, but the First Years have never known Albus Dumbledore and so don’t know what it is they’re missing. I envy them that. Sometimes the sense of loss is crushing.

 

I need to start counting the things that I do have, the things I have gained. I need to cherish them more. For a start, I have a job. I belong somewhere. I didn’t belong with Sirius. He can’t, or won’t, understand me.

 

My tutor, Professor Lupin, is smiling gently to himself beside me. He says that I must call him Remus from now on. My status as a trainee teacher aside, he says that I have more than earned the privilege. He has told me that he’ll be taking a very informal approach to my training, basically plugging up any gaps that have appeared in my theory-based knowledge, and augmenting my extensive practical knowledge with teaching techniques. In two years I should be fully qualified. After that, who knows? Although… Remus is already eyeing the prospect of early retirement with a gleam in his eye. He does look tired, but then everybody does. Except the First Years.

 

“Porcin, Christian,” Severus calls imperiously. I can see that they are snickering at the unfortunate surname. The boy certainly doesn’t look like a pig. He reminds me of Neville, during that first year; timid, but determined all the same.

 

Neville’s gone too. All the bravery of Gryffindor and none of the dumb luck.

 

I fasten my eyes on Remus’ half-smile. I’m desperate to distract myself from the morbid turn of my thoughts. With inevitably bad timing, Sirius’ comments come to mind;

‘What do you mean you hear ‘only Snape’?’. I remember watching the vein in his temple threatening to pop with the pressure. Though I couldn’t hear a word, I could certainly imagine his bellowing voice. I wondered if the neighbours could hear. ‘What has that bastard done to you?’.

 

And so it went on. Eventually he had to calm down, if only to hear my whispered replies. His impatience with the lack of progress on healing my wretched vocal chords was palpable. Gradually, I compiled a mental list of things we couldn’t talk about due to the volatility of Sirius’ temper. Our time together became stilted and forced. He did, however, get me back up on my broom. It was incredible being airborne again. I should have thanked him for that before I left. His displeasure at my decision to return and train at Hogwarts was predictable. I have no doubt that Remus has already received an embarrassing number of owls from him with warnings to watch out for Snape weaving an evil spell of some kind over me. Merlin! What does he think Remus will do when he reads that? He trusts Snape to dose him with Wolfsbane potion on a regular basis.

 

My godfather can be a bloody prat. I have to remember that he loves me – that all that fury comes from protectiveness. And he’s alive. At least I get the chance to make things right. Someday.

 

I switch my gaze to the only person I hear now, the one who allows me to hear my own voice whenever he is nearby. He is taking the hat off each child’s head as their house is declared. “Ravenclaw,” Nesss supplies for me as the girl heads to her table with a bounce in her step.

 

You’d think I’d be able to hear a bloody magic hat if I can hear Parseltongue! But, no. Aside from Nesss, all I can hear is his voice; deep and smooth, and somehow threateningly pissy. I don’t know how he combines that slightly effeminate undertone with something that feels like… I don’t know – like you know that it’s just such a bad idea to have him get angry at you? Makes Sirius’ rages seem like a toddler having a tantrum.

 

“Travis, Janus.” Snape intones.

 

He got very angry with Voldemort. Stupid git couldn’t stick to the plan. Stupid git tried to save me.

 

And, apparently, that all leads to the fact that I can hear his voice, and no other. Sympathetic magic, he says. An unconscious ‘keying in’ of my power to his. I remember when he explained it to me:

 

“Don’t get any ideas, Potter. This does _not_ mean that I’m your ruddy slave.”

 

But I know that there is more to it. He just won’t bloody tell me. And getting angry about it is probably the worst thing I can do. No, I will wait. And I will find out.

 

And I will close my eyes, for just a minute, and let the voice flow over me.

 

*** *** ***

 

Remus slaps my assignment down on his desk. He looks at me, ‘That’s very good, Harry!’. I dip my head and smile, feeling pleased. Praise is something that I have been starved of lately, what with Dumbledore’s death, and Sirius’ ranting in place of normal conversation.

 

For some reason Remus is frowning at me.

 

‘I’ve had an owl from Sirius,’ he mouths slowly.

 

I nod, ‘I know the feeling,’ then I look down at his desk. ‘I’m sorry if he’s bothering you about Professor Snape,’ I whisper. I glance up to see him twitch slightly.

 

‘There’s no need to apologise, Harry,’. He pauses, as if he can’t find the right words. I watch his lips expectantly. He’s chewing on his bottom lip. I wince and shudder at the sight. As if he’s just realised where my eyes are directed, he stops and licks his lip, then presses it into a tight line against the other. After a moment he seems to come to a decision.

 

‘This… ability, Harry, to hear Severus’ voice – has he explained it to you?’.

 

I know the air that I have just expelled over my teeth makes a soft ‘ch’ sound. I’ve been studying up on my own voice and noises, such as they are, whenever I go to pester Snape in his chambers. It irritates the hell out of him, but he hasn’t thrown me out yet. When he’s bored with me muttering to myself he puts a finger to my left ear and Nesss winds onto it. He will sit with his inevitable glass of scotch, watching as Nesss weaves around each of his fingers in turn.

 

‘Remus, have you ever had a straight answer from Snape?’ That makes him laugh, takes some of the weight off his expression. Just for a moment.

 

‘Seriously, Harry – I think you need to find out exactly what this is. There’s a whiff of Dark Arts to it. You must have felt it?’.

 

Shit, no! I never have. It’s always felt nothing but right. Even in the panic of discovering that I couldn’t hear anyone else, as long as Snape was around I felt secure. Why is that something that I don’t feel I can share with Remus Lupin? It goes without saying that I never contemplated telling Sirius.

 

I just nod and leave his office on a promise of attempting to pump Snape for more information.

 

Yeah, like that’s going to happen!

 

*** *** ***

 

I’m practising my Sonorous Charm. I temporarily deafened some students in my first Prac lesson for Remus today.

 

“Bogging hell!” Severus claps his hands over his ears. He looks pained and furious.

 

“Sorry, sorry!” I belatedly do a Finite Incantatum on my throat as he grimaces again.

 

He’s gasping, “bloody idiot!” while Nesss weaves in and out of his robes in agitation, hissing mightily all the while.

 

“Yes, alright! I told him I was sorry. Whose side are you on anyway?”

 

“What are–?”

 

“Nesss is reprimanding me. Uppity snake!”

 

He straightens up, pushing his hair out of his face, and looks for Nesss who has burrowed under his robe again. “A serpent of extreme intelligence and good taste,” he mutters. She appears immediately, of course, slipping out of the end of his sleeve and winding herself around his little finger. He shoots a triumphant glance at me and strokes her softly on the top of her tiny head. “Try less emphasis on the ‘o’, Potter.” He picks up his glass and I watch him take a medicinal swig of scotch.

 

“Right.” I point my wand at my throat again. Practice makes perfect.

 

*** *** ***

 

I’m standing at the spot again. It’s still quite dark. I don’t feel as angry as I did a year ago. It’s bloody cold. I’ve just returned from Christmas with Ron and his family. Hermione was there too. It was wonderful to see them again. They’ve finally met Nesss. She sensed something strained about Ron whenever he was near me. I noticed it too. Nesss can taste emotions when she is close to people. She has already warned me about some of the students in my Prac lessons who were plotting something behind my back. I’ve confiscated several Fizzing Wizzbies, their owners gobsmacked that I knew what they were up to.

 

I wish that I’d had the time to get to the bottom of it, to find out what was bothering Ron. I asked Hermione if she had any clue as to what was on his mind. She said she had the impression that he was worried about my association with Professor Snape. Well, that was not going to be resolved in a hurry. And he was back to training school the next day – which was a bit rough, even for an apprentice Auror. But I wanted to get back to Hogwarts anyway. I had a present for Severus, and I didn’t want to go too far past Christmas Day before I gave to him.

 

The ground is stark white. My shoes are getting soaked while I stand here in the snow. I let the memories play out in my mind. It seems so surreal now, amongst this peace and silence, to remember the violence, the speed, and Dumbledore’s death. Sometimes it feels like it never happened. I think they call that ‘denial’.

 

I nearly scream when a hand lands on my shoulder. “What, in the name of every star in the bloody sky, are you doing out in the bloody cold at this bloody time of the morning?”

 

“Good morning, Severus,” I manage to gasp out in the frigid air. My heartbeat gradually winds down to an acceptably hectic pace. “And a Merry Christmas to you too!”

 

“That’s a bit late, even for you. About… thirty hours late, I believe?”

 

I laugh, “I’ll take your word for it.” I should have gone back inside, I’m starting to literally shake with cold. “What were you doing out here, anyway?” He holds a bag of twigs up for my inspection. At least I think they’re twigs….

 

“Ingredients. You wouldn’t be able to pronounce the name. Had to harvest them before the sun hit them,” He tucks the bag under his arm and rubs his hands together, “Merlin! I’ve lost all feeling in this hand now! Are you finished mooning about here, or what?” he squints down at me in annoyance, “My balls’ll be next!”

 

“You harvesting them too?” I tease, then turn back to face the castle. “Yes, I’m done.” I start sloshing back through the snow, following the footprints I left on the way out. When he doesn’t immediately follow, I turn back to see him kiss his fingers and press them into the snow. I turn away quickly. It was a private moment and I don’t want him to feel awkward.

 

*** *** ***

 

I’m back in my quarters stripping off my soaking shoes, socks, and robes before it occurs to me that Severus could just as easily have meant that kiss to be for Voldemort as for Albus Dumbledore.

 

Maybe it’s time to start asking some questions.

 

*** *** ***

 

I knock on his door. After about ten seconds it swings open. It strikes me that he is never surprised when I show up. Irritated, yes – but never surprised.

 

“…bloody three times!”

 

“I beg your pardon?” I ask in confusion.

 

“Never mind,” Severus answers, obviously irritated about something. I have to smile at the pissy tone. “What do you want, anyway?”

 

“I wondered if we could talk about something, if you have time.”

 

He’s walking about, shedding shoes and robes as he goes. He hasn’t yet changed from his foray in the Forbidden Forest. “Why have you been in those wet things for so long?” I must admit that my own tone is sounding a touch pissy now.

 

“ _Not_ that it’s any of your business, but I had to put my harvested pieces into a vacuum-sealed storage jar immediately to ensure their longevity,” he answers with a hiss.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

He’s down to his shirt and trousers now, and I realise with some dismay that he has undone the cuffs and is moving to the buttons over his chest. The sleeves are wet. He does need to change it.

 

He makes no move to leave the main room. Neither do I.

 

I walk over to the fireplace to continue the thawing process. I hear his voice, “What did you want to talk about that couldn’t wait until you had a hot breakfast inside you?” Hmmm, porridge… with cream and sugar. My stomach joyously agrees with the sentiment, giving a huge rumble. Right, focus man!

 

“Um,” I turn to face him, encountering an expanse of ridiculously pale skin. “It’s about the thing.”

 

He snorts derisively and reaches for the clean, dry shirt hanging over his armchair. With his left hand. Which, unsurprisingly, is attached to his left arm – upon which is imprinted a livid, pulsing tattoo.

 

I can feel my knees go weak. “Fuck–”

 

He looks at me sharply. “Harry?” He takes a step toward me and I whimper. He stops abruptly and just… stares. Then he looks down at his arm, his hand still clutching his shirt.

 

“Oh, no.”

 

My sentiments exactly.

 

“It’s not what you think.”

 

Sure, where have I heard _that_ before? I don’t have my wand with me. I can’t believe he would do this! I just can’t believe it! I have to lock my knees straight to keep from pitching headfirst into the flagstone floor. I trusted this man! He must be picking up my panic because he lowers his voice to a soft, smooth tone. I know he’s doing it deliberately, but it’s so damn soothing–

 

“Harry, it’s not Voldemort. He’s dead. You killed him. You and Albus. I want you to think carefully about what I’m saying. This mark has been active since that day in the Potions classroom – this is the sympathetic magic right here. Do you understand?”

 

Not a bloody bit of it! I look at the door and try to judge the distance I have to cross to get out. And will the damn door even open for me? I’m a fool. I can’t believe it!

 

And it’s my sense of disbelief that ultimately means that I ponder what he has just said. He doesn’t move an inch. He’s giving me the most wide-eyed, intent stare that I have ever seen.

 

“I… I am not a Dark Lord,” I state. He nods, acknowledging my reasoning. “I activated it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

He smiles at the question. “No, never. I get a tingle when you’re out there,” he indicates the corridor, “but that’s all.” He pauses. There is something he’s not telling me. I’m afraid to ask.

 

“I was keyed to Voldemort at the time he expired. It should have vanished with him. And with Albus. I think perhaps you and Voldemort had a similar magical signature.”

 

I’m nodding in agreement before I know it. Well, it’s true! And this is all starting to make way too much sense. “But… I’m not a Dark Wizard,” I’m starting to repeat myself, the sign of an overtaxed brain.

 

“Harry, you aren’t Dark. You aren’t entirely Light either. You are a multiplicity. No one like you has ever existed before.”

 

Am I flattered? Hell, no! “But, how do I switch it off?”

 

He holds his arm out to look at it again. “Why in Merlin’s name would you want to?”

 

He’s genuinely baffled by the idea. I’m scrabbling to point out the bloody obvious. This must be an everyday procedure for him. “It’s– it’s your body!” Yeah, and? God, how do I begin? I’m still struggling, and my forehead is starting to ache from the bunching frown on it when he speaks again.

 

“Harry, it doesn’t hurt, and knowing you, I don’t imagine it ever will. It allows you to talk to me, to hear your own voice and to hear mine. With time we might be able to extend the power and allow you to hear others. Who knows?”

 

There’s something wrong with all of that, but for the life of me I can’t concentrate enough to work out what it is. Instead, I just stare at the Mark, hypnotised. “Can I touch it?” Who said that? Did I say that?

 

“I think so,” Severus takes a step forward, holding his arm out. His face is a blank mask. I move from my position in front of the fireplace and approach him. It really does pulse, and it seems to become more intense as I get closer. I lift my hand towards it, feeling a sense of inevitability swamp me.

 

The first thing I notice is that it’s warm. But my fingers are probably still cold. No doubt he is cold too, everywhere else but here. I stroke slowly over it from edge to edge. It has a quite a definite outline – a slight ridge. I’m sure that he just shivered. “I’m sorry, you must be bloody cold.” I murmur. He hisses unintelligibly and shakes his head. That’s when I can feel it. The sensation. It’s like an all-over massage in the space of a second.

 

“Oh, this is bad,” I shake my head slowly. He raises his eyebrows, looking comically surprised.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing that feels _this_ nice can possibly be good for you!” I state with certainty. He pulls his arm away and I fight the urge to grab it and hold on for a bit longer. He shrugs into his shirt at last.

 

“Potter, you’re a prat.”

 

Like I don’t know that already. I keep staring at his arm as if I can see under the shirtsleeve.

 

“And you’re disturbing me. Stop staring.”

 

“Okay,” I look at his face. He looks flushed. “Sorry,” I say meekly.

 

“Not a bloody word about this to anyone, alright?”

 

I nod in agreement straight away. We’d be burnt at the stake for sure.

 

*** *** ***

 

The final instalment in this series is called “Black Butterflies”.

 


End file.
